A quick drawing of the breath, as though from sudden pain, met his ear--his heart beat quickly, but he would not embarrass her by a glance. There was a slight rustling of her dress, and turning he saw that she had risen, and with one hand pressed upon the table for support, was advancing to the door. Falteringly, one--two--three steps were taken, and completely overcome, pale and ready to faint, she sank upon a sofa near her. He sprang forward, but she motioned him away, and covering her face with her hands, burst into tears--tears of shame as well as of sorrow. For an instant he stood irresolute--but only for an instant, when bending over her, he whispered, "Dare I hope that you sympathize with me, Mary--that the feeling which made even liberty painful to me since it separates me from you, is not confined to my own bosom?" Mary's sobs ceased--but she spoke not--moved not. "Answer me, dear Mary--remember I have little time to woo, for my orders admit of no delay in their execution--I must leave you to-morrow. Rise then above the petty formalities of your sex, and if I may indeed hope ever to call you mine, let me do so this night--this hour--your father will not, I think, fear to commit you to my tenderness." Mary uncovered her face, and raised her eyes for an instant to his, with an expression so confiding that he thought his suit was won, and pressing her hand to his lips, he said, "That glance tells me that you are my own, Mary. My life shall prove my gratitude--but now I must seek your father--_our_ father--will you await us here?" "I have something to say to you--sit down and hear me," said Mary, in a voice which she strove in vain to raise above a whisper. He placed himself beside her on the sofa, still clasping the hand he had taken, and with a voice faltering and low at first, but gathering strength as she proceeded, Mary resumed:--"I will not attempt--I do not wish to deny that you have read my heart aright--that--that you who saved me are--are--" a lover's ear alone could detect the next words--"very dear to me--but I cannot--I think I ought not----" She paused, and Captain Percy said, "You are not willing to intrust your happiness to one so lately known." "Oh, no! you mistake my meaning--I can have no doubt of you--no fear for my own happiness--but my father--who will care for him if I, his daughter, his only child, thus give myself to another at the very time that he needs me most?" "I will not take you from him--at least not now, Mary--give me but the right to call you mine, and I will leave you here in your own sweet home--not again, I trust, to be visited by war--till peace shall leave me at liberty to return to England with my bride--my wife."